After the Storm
by SensibleNonsense
Summary: Courage is not something that can survive for itself. Set directly after the end of episode 51, these are the little bits of drabble that we don't get to see. SoulxMaka fluff. :3 T for language.
1. Familiar

**WARNING: Contains spoilers!! ^^; (gomene~)**

**AN: Unfortunately, I do not own _Soul Eater_, but these two are my obsession right now. This will probably be two or three chapters by the end…Like I said in the summary, my intention is to narrate the little bits of daily SoulxMaka fluff that wouldn't be featured in a Shonen manga/anime.**

**I kind of doubted the fact that Maka could get up and deliver an inspirational message about courage after being strangled, taking a direct hit from the Kishin, and having her ribs and internal organs crushed. o.o;; Ouch. So this is what I think might've happened after the curtains on the 51st episode closed...**

* * *

The sun was sinking in the sky by the time Soul had become anxious enough to risk getting out of bed to check on Maka. The flower-shaped burn on his back stretched blisteringly as he raised himself onto his elbows and rolled out of the too-familiar hospital bed. He grimaced. Not cool.

The others slept dreamlessly in their own beds, so much themselves even in the depths of unconsciousness. BlackStar lay sprawled across his mattress, the star of his own bed even amongst the swathe of bloodied bandages. Tsubaki slept, small and fragile in the bed beside his, the golden light spilling across her troubled face. Liz and Patty shared a bed, wrapped around each other, matching bruise to bruise, while Kid slept stiff and still as death. Soul padded quietly past them all, leaving only the slightest traces of blood on his own sheets.

Maka had been in surgery for almost five hours now, Soul thought as he wound his way through the crowded rooms of the dispensary. Stein-hakase must be finished by now, and if he wasn't and Maka—…But Soul wasn't going to think about that. Nevertheless, he felt a cold chill sweep through his feverish body as he reached the still-closed door to the operating room.

Shit. Why was this taking so damn long? A string of manic images flashed through his battered head, but the figures blocking the entrance saved him from doing anything drastic.

"A-ah, Soul! Hello…" murmured Crona, looking up. The sad remains of a daisy lay scattered on her skirt as she plucked at the petals in that habitually nervous manner.

"Eh," Soul responded, sitting down slowly beside her so as to avoid stretching the burn on his back.

She was a good three feet away from where Spirit lay sacked out on the floor, having tried to pry his way under the door to get to his daughter. It was lucky that Maka couldn't see.

"So. Any news?" asked Soul, eying the snoring man suspiciously. He was dedicated, that much was sure. At least in some things.

"Um…Stein-hakase said that h-he thinks she'll make it," she stammered, fiddling with the fraying hem of her skirt now. "But that it will take some time to heal."

Soul felt himself relax instaneously, only to be hit with a sudden wave of nostalgia. This was where Maka had been when he'd been the one in their being pieced back together. Except that she hadn't had anyone to wait with...

Soul clenched his fists.

Maka had waited for him. Now it was his turn.

~*~

He must have fallen asleep sometime during the night for when next he woke, Soul was back in his own hospital bed. His first thought was to realize that someone must have carried him back. He flinched. How uncool. He was really loosing his touch lately.

Why had he been out of bed, anyway?

Maka.

He shot up at the word and immediately paid for it with a pulse of scorching pain from the burn on his back. But it only slowed him for a moment.

His sleeping friends remained still, the only change to be lit with weak light of early morning. But there it was, at the end of the row—a new bed, surrounded by white hospital curtains.

Soul was there, tearing back the curtain before he could think to move. And there she was. Maka: bruised, battered, little spots of dried blood coloring a swath of white bandages.

Her face was paler than usual. Flaxen hair usually tied into such neat ponytails bloomed across the pillow in knots of disarray. Deep black bruises traced spider-thin fingers around her neck like a sadistic tattoo--a gift from a demon.

Soul was motionless for several minutes, studying his meister's face with unreadable crimson eyes. Seeing her here—even in this state—safe and sleeping, allowed a weight of unimaginable proportions was lifted off his chest. He sank down in the folding chair positioned next to her bed, weak with relief.

He reached out, slipping his hand into hers. Small and cool, it was as familiar to him as the keys on his piano and, in battle, brought the same amount of power and exhilaration. But now her usually strong grasp was slack. He rubbed his thumb musingly over the same battered knuckles that had knocked the Kishin of its pedistal.

Soul grinned a bit, sharp teeth exaggerating a smile provoked by pride. Yeah, that was his partner. You wouldn't think it to look at her, but she was without a doubt the coolest person Soul had ever met.

Maka stirred.

"Ne, Soul," she slurred, her words dragged down by painkillers and exhaustion. She didn't open her eyes—didn't need to to know who it was holding her hand. It was a knowledge that sprung perhaps from her soul perception ability, perhaps from something else. Her fingers tightened briefly around his own.

"Eh, Maka."

She didn't respond, but the tinniest smile fluttered across her face upon hearing his voice. And then sleep reclaimed her.

Soul leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, assuming his Cool Guy pose. But while he slipped one hand into his pocket, the other remained holding hers.

"Yeah, Maka," said Soul. "I'll stay."

* * *

**Yosh! :D Fluff!**

**You might have noticed that I refer to Crona as "she". But if anyone knows what gender Soul usually refers to him/her, I'd like to fix that.**

**Your feedback would be lovely~ :3**


	2. Nightmares & Lullabies

**Warning**: SPOILERS, for gawdssake, spoilers!

**Disclaimer**: If I owned Soul Eater, this story would not be loitering around —it would be chillin' with Pinocchio, who is also a real boy.

**AN**: Sorry for the long wait—probably wasn't the cleverest idea I've had to start a chaptered story right before the finals crunch began. ^^; I hope that the one-shot kept you entertained in the meantime~

About my inquiry in chapter 1, I'm going to continue referring to Krona as a girl; after chapter 61 in the manga I…think it would be safer to assume as much. XD

P.S. Thank you so much to all of those who've reviewed so far! (Especially ! ^^) It was truly a lovely a welcome to FF, and I am unbelievably grateful to all of you for it~ *kissu* :P

* * *

The others were out within the week; first Tsubaki, then Liz, Patty, and Soul. By the time Maka had become fully conscious, BlackStar and Kid were her only roommates—and they were hardly pleasant company, having been cooped up for so long in the small room.

Kid, happy to have someone reasonable to talk to, spent that entire first day weeping at the girl about the fleeting glory of his perfectly symmetrical hair. BlackStar was out harassing the staff and making unsuccessful escape attempts. (It is, after all, rather difficult to be discreet when the world is your stage.) Both managed to get kicked out before the end of the day, having been deemed well enough to _leave, please. Immediately._

They were more than happy to oblige.

But if there was one word to describe Maka Albarn, it was stubborn. Once she had the room to herself, she set about ordering what looked like nearly half of the contents of the Shibusen library, and got down to work.

Having defeated the Kishin with a single word, the dangerous device that was Maka's intuition had been piqued. She'd liked the rounded, stretching strokes of the Arabic word on her mother's postcard even before she'd been able to attach a meaning to it; now she was bent on learning Arabic. Because if that single word had (temporarily) quelled Insanity, then what might a thousand do?

From there, her fascination had expanded to all things Arabic—folklore, history, even geography—and she'd surrounded her hospital bed in a veritable fortress of books, much to the chagrin of the nurses. Her friends were used to it.

Come the end of the day, they would storm in, all sweat and stories, and tear her away from her printed world. The force of BlackStar kicking down the door usually crumbled the fragile structure of books, and she'd have to wait for Krona (who had a certain fondness for small, dark places) to build back up again the next day.

But in the meantime, Liz, Patty, and—inevitably—Kid braided her hair while BlackStar told stories about himself, Soul added in his occasional snarky comment, and Tsubaki kept the peace. It was, all in all, not an entirely unpleasant way to spend an evening.

They'd have left by eight, needing their rest to continue the reconstruction work that was going on all around Death City. But sometimes Soul would stay after the others had left—to clear up a story BlackStar hadn't been entirely factual about, or further Papa-proof her room, or just to listen to her talk. He'd never stay long, though; cool guys don't hover.

Whether he admitted it to himself or not, he missed her. Having spent the better part of every waking hour with her for the past two years, it felt strange not to have his Meister around. He'd be glad when she was back with them all.

Besides, he was tired of cooking for himself.

~*~

Two weeks later, with a large bottle of pain meds and a strict warning from Nygus not to test the healing process, Maka was allowed to return home. It occurred to her, as she watched Sid-sensei help jury-rig Patty's pillow-enhanced little red wagon to the side of Soul's bike, that she hadn't seen home in nearly a month. What with the rescuing Krona, the fight with the Kishin, and her stay in the hospital…It had all been far too long.

"Oi, Maka," called Soul, waking her from her reverie. "Let's go."

She struggled slowly to her feet, and Sid-sensei all but carried her down Shibusen's entry stairs and settled her in the wagon. Soul drummed his fingers on the handle bar while she thanked Sid, who mumbled something about it being "the kind of man he was" and hobbling away embarrassedly.

Soul's hand strayed towards the clutch, but was arrested by the harried appearance of Marie-sensei, who tucked a little parcel of sweets in beside Maka and kissed the girl on the forehead.

"Goddanm! This ain't a funeral!" complained Soul, taking the chance to speed out into the streets of Death City. Maka clung to the sides of the wagon and yelped furiously at the impatient boy to slow down as their teachers looked on nervously, and a hopeful smiled tugged at the corner of Stein's mouth.

~*~

Any feelings of nostalgia had been thoroughly burned off after the terrorizing wagon ride and painful struggle up three flights of stairs (downed elevator). Now she scowled at the apartment door as Soul fished in his coat pocket for the keys. It turned out to be an unnecessary search, as a scantily-clad Blair burst out almost immediately, advancing on the suddenly-incapacitated boy with sounds of girlish glee before spotting the steaming girl.

"Ah, Maka, it's been so long~" cooed Blair delightedly, completely oblivious to the girl's murderous mood. "Are you feeling better now? Oh, I hope you'll cook me fish again!~"

Blair continued to chatter away as they entered the apartment, but all Maka could think about was how Soul and Blair must've been spending their time during her stay in the hospital. A quick glance around at the disorder filling the room gave her a pretty good idea. Her hand itched towards a concealed book.

Perhaps sensing this, Soul hurried towards the kitchen to clean up his bloody nose and pull together a quick dinner.

Maka settled herself carefully on the couch, placing a purring, cat-formed Blair on her lap. Maybe it was the excitement of the day or maybe it was the comforting cushiness of the couch, but she felt immensely tired and a little sad as she picked at an old curry stain on the peachy-orange fabric. She was glad when Soul returned, bearing two steaming bowls of instant ramen.

She let Soul take his turn in the bathroom first that night, knowing that she'd have to take much longer than usual to avoid anything potentially painful. He was out within ten minutes, smelling of soap and peppermint toothpaste. They exchanged their usual brief "g'night" before he slouched off to his own room.

She wished, just then, that he'd stay up with her longer tonight. The odd, almost nonsensical feeling of loneliness that had settled on her upon reentering to the apartment after all that had occurred within the month was made all the more apparent now that Blair had left for the cabaret and Soul was probably asleep. She would have liked someone to fill the space with…

As she had guessed, it took her more than an hour to finish with her toiletries, and she clambered into bed gratefully, careful not to disturb her much-abused body.

She was barely asleep when she began to dream…

~*~

She sits on the couch the night before they leave for Baba Yaga's castle, staring at the word written on the postcard. It's in the back of her mind, on the tip of her tongue, but she can't recall what it means.

The word lifts itself off the paper, uncurling from the loops its sedentary loops. It floats up, a shimmering, silvery line—a little dragon—and hides behind a lamp. She dashes after it, but as soon as she touches it, it crumbles into a fine dust, clouding her eyes and filling her lungs.

She can't breathe.

She can't breathe because the Kishin has his long white fingers wrapped around her neck in a deadman's embrace, can't see because his eyes within eyes are burrowing into her own. And—god!—there's no one else to save her except the little silver dragon floating in and out of her mind, too quick to catch; no one to breathe for her because the close-by corpses of her friends lost their heartbeats long ago.

And the little silver dragon stumbles and flickers out like the flame on a candle.

~*~

She wakes up gasping for breath and—thank god—it comes. Her fractured ribs and sewn-up lungs send off sparks of searing pain that sprinkle her vision with little black dots 'til she can't tell if it's the pain or the fear that cause tears to spill from her eyes. All she knows is to breathe. She can't help the sobs that come with it.

The stifled sounds take the notice of a bleary-eyed Soul who, on his way through the kitchen with a carton of milk, diverts his path, a pit of unease growing in his stomach. He sets the carton down outside the door, his hand hesitating for only the slightest of moments on the handle before entering. Cool guys don't run away.

The sobs catch when she hears the door open, continuing only in strangled little gulps. He can sense her shame at his seeing her like this, and sees her swipe an arm quickly across her face.

"Maka, you…" he trails off, at a loss for what to say.

He'd dealt with a defeated Maka before—many times, in fact. In battle, in games, in arguments, he always knew what to say to provoke her, to calm her, to bring her back. He's seen her at her best and her worst—from broken and defeated and dragging their sorry asses home, to _If you think we can do it, I do to_, to standing alone on a pedestal all her own. He knows Maka.

But he's never seen her cry—not really—and it disturbs him more than he would have thought. Because he wonders how many other times she's cried without his knowing—for herself, for others…for him?

Shit.

He's frozen in the door, as useless as a ragdoll. A joke. And yet he recalls another time—a time in a fight with a clown—when they'd been a world apart and he'd had to call her back. He wonders if the circumstances are similar enough…

Time to wing it.

At least winging it is cool.

He relaxes visibly and strides across the room, crouching down beside the crumpled little pile of Maka and sheets. She seems to deflate into the mattress, and he puts an arm around her thin little shoulders, just to make sure she doesn't fall through entirely.

"Oi, Maka," he says softly, though not without a certain amount of gruffness. (He has dignity, after all.) His voice, so close to her ear, disturbs pale little wisps of hair. "Follow my soul wavelengths, okay?"

~*~

He waits for her in the Piano Room—that ever-present little corner in his mind—calm and neatly fitted into his pinstripe suit. He doesn't wait long.

She materializes from behind the red curtains that conceal the thick black fog of thought, her black dress fitting awkwardly over the swathe of bandages around her middle. Her swollen, tear-reddened eyes stubbornly refuse to meet his.

There's a pause for a moment as both take in the strange—though not unpleasant—silence that had taken up residence in the place since the subtraction of the little red imp and his scratched jazz vinyls.

"C'mon, sit here," says Soul, moving towards the piano bench.

The bench is small, and Maka clasps her hands tightly in her lap so as not to be in the way he begins to play. Only his hands remain immobile in his pockets. Out of curiosity, she's finally forced to meet his gaze.

"Okay," he says finally, red eyes dubious and guarded, though a slight smile tugs at his lips. "One ticket, no rain-checks, no cop-outs: what do you want me to play?"

Her eyes light up at this sudden, unexpected gift, and in spite of herself, she cracks a smile as well. "Will you play your song? Play 'Soul.'"

He grimaces. "That's not exactly lullaby material, you know."

"I know. But I like it anyway."

He shrugs, still frowning a bit, but compliantly places his fingers on the bone-white keys. The color makes Maka shiver, but the expectant silence hangs in the air holds her too as the room waits with baited breath for Soul's to move. And then he does, and the sound sweeps her up like a buoy.

He improvised every time he played it, but there was always the melody, elusive and captivating, that wound its way around the whole piece, even through changes in key and tempo. And it was always so overwhelming—chords and quick rhythms toppling over one another, clamoring for your attention like the hands of the dying until it threatened to drown you alive. And—god—what a strange, eerie, ugly, beautiful, fantastic way it would be to die.

But now—just this one time—he plays it without hurry, without the panicked rush. It uncurls slowly, a thing wholly other-worldly—a story completely unexplainable words—twining its way like ivy inside her mind. It covers things scraped raw and bare by nightmares and fear and doubt, soothing like a balm, making small ladders of vine for courage to bloom again.

She sits, eyes closed, transfixed by it all, aware only of the music and the ivy and the warm presence of the boy sitting beside her. And still it surprises her at when he, suddenly, he switches keys.

His minor chords are gone, replaced by the strong and stable resonance of G. And who knows what—if anything—is going through his mind, but he's playing his melody in her key—the song of weapon and meister. But more importantly, the song for Soul and Maka.

It is beyond lovely or strange—the major key a resolution to more than just the musical phrase. Rather, a promise that, no matter what she fears, she would not be left alone.

And that is all the lullaby she needs.

~*~

It isn't until about 3 AM that Blair returns home from the cabaret, smelling like expensive drinks and cheap cologne. She tiptoes through the door, shutting it quietly behind her before returning to her cat shape and trotting towards Maka's room.

"Phoo~" she breathes out, pink-tipped ears drooping. "I'm glad Maka's not awake to scold me. She—…Eh?"

Two figures are propped up in sleep on the bed instead of one. Soul, his arm still around Maka was using the top of her head as a pillow, the bit of drool dripping from his gaping mouth drawing dangerously close to Maka's hair. The girl leans against him, smiling in her sleep, oblivious but safely toting a book nearby. Neither stirs upon the cat's entrance.

"Mean Soul, cheating on Blair!" She huffs, curling up in a little furry ball on Maka's knee. "I'll have to remind him what he's missing out on in the morning."

* * *

**AN**: Perhaps a cliché idea, but I couldn't help myself. I apologize, too, for my always taking so long to get to the SoulxMaka parts…^^; I hope it doesn't detract from the interest level of the story. But, man, am I fluffed-out after finishing this chapter! D: Phew! *reminds self to get on fluff-diet*

Ah!—And I also figured I should get ahead of the game and answer a question before anyone gets around to asking (or…noticing XD):

Why do your characters always end up in varied states of unconsciousness by the end of your stories? Is there some sort of sleeping gas that periodically leaks through the streets of Death City?

Excellent guess; I wouldn't put it past Shinigami-sama. Really, it's just for the simple reason that…I like sleep. :D It's a very comforting place that makes everything around it somehow softer about the edges. Also, sleep is a harbinger (yes! Can't believe I actually got to use that word in a sentence!) of dreams, which—in my mind—are linked irrevocably to SE.

Reviews happily welcomed!


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